


Above All Else

by mumblybee



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:45:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/383136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblybee/pseuds/mumblybee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>York attempts to convince Carolina that she doesn't have to be good at everything in the universe. Using Batman as a reference, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Above All Else

**Author's Note:**

> “But that was why he loved her better than we did – we loved her so much for her strength that we could never let her be weak, and he loved both parts of her equally.”
> 
> \- The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown

She was an unforgiving leader, sometimes bordering on cruel. She barked orders and insults as needed, unafraid to stomp on anyone’s feelings (or feet, or faces) if it meant they’d get the job done better. They griped about this to each other behind her back and she knew it but didn’t particularly care.

That was the point. She was number one for a reason; the numbers were what mattered in all scenarios. If a mission needed to be completed in thirty minutes, they damn well better get it done in twenty-five just in case they hit a snag. If three packages needed to be recovered, three packages were _going_ to be recovered. And if eight agents got off the ship alive and well, eight agents were coming home alive and well. No exceptions.

She was unforgiving but only because the alternative (disorderly conduct, failed objectives, wounded and/or missing soldiers) was unforgivable. In the end she berated and rebuked them simply because she _belonged_ to them; she needed them. And what she needed _of_ them was the same thing she required of herself: strength, above all else.

“There are different kinds of strength, you know,” York told her one day.

They were in the common room, York lounging on the couch with a comic book while Carolina did push ups on the floor. It was carpeted in soft blue, like that might make you forget you were on a space ship. South had mocked it (“Wow, sure goes great with the steel panels”) but Carolina thought it was a wise choice; it was important for the soldiers to have somewhere to relax so that they would be mentally prepared for work. Not her, of course, but the carpet was also a good surface for push ups so that was useful too. She stopped now, having reached her afternoon quota of one hundred, and stood up in order to glare more imposingly at York.

“What are you talking about?” she demanded. She was often demanding this of him. Unfortunately the problem with York was that he didn’t usually _know_ what he was talking about; he talked _around_ his topic in looping figure eights that sometimes crossed through the center but never really came to any point.

He smiled languidly at her now, sitting up a little, and shrugged.

“I mean there’s different ways of being good at stuff. You can be a strong…artist,” he lifted the worn cover of the comic book (Batman, whom Carolina had always found a little bit insufferable) presumably as an example of art. “Or you can be a strong reader. Like Wash. Or strong at puzzles. Like, you know, me.”

            Carolina had never quite understood how York could be so unfailingly prideful while also being spectacularly uncompetitive. He knew what he was good at and he was proud of it and he didn’t seem to feel any particular need to guard that pride. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen him training with any real fervor – mostly he acted like a kid on a playground – but then she had never needed to pay much attention to his training. He did his job and he did it well and the only time he ever really needed a reprimand was when he seemed to forget that he was part of a military operation and tried telling knock-knock jokes over the radio.

(“Come in Carolina?”

“Go for Carolina.”

“Knock-knock.”

“…I’m going to murder you.”

 “No man, you’re supposed to say ‘who’s there.’”

 “York, I’m not joking.”

“Well why not? It’s a knock-knock joke.”

“ _We are on a **mission**._ ”)

            She had nearly kicked him off of the building then, but it would’ve alerted their target, so she waited to do that till after the target was eliminated. (York had good reflexes. He’d caught onto a ledge. It had been fine.) Now she merely frowned at him and said, “I don’t recall asking for a lesson in embracing our differences.” She pronounced the last few words as though declaring them on a children’s cartoon program, which is where she presumed this sort of conversation was supposed to take place.

            York shrugged. “You’re not supposed to ask for lessons, they just happen. Anyway I was just sayin’. Look, Batman says –”

            “I don’t care what _Batman_ says.” She crossed her arms. “I haven’t seen you on the training floor in a day and a half. Do you think you’re going to stay Two if you don’t train for it?”

            “I don’t care, man. That’s what I’m saying. That’s not important. Batman says –”

            “York –”

            He ignored her, brandishing the comic book and clearing his throat. “—‘If we all spoke each other’s tongues, perhaps the scourge of war would be ended forever.’” He looked at her very significantly. She stared back, unimpressed.

            “You’re an idiot,” she told him.

            “No, no, I’m just trying to explain,” he said, on the edge of his seat now in his earnestness. “If we all spoke each other’s tongues, like if we all tried to understand each other, if we just tried to get it, to get that some people are good at stuff that other people aren’t good at and that’s okay because –”

            Carolina took two steps forward, snatched the comic book from York’s hands, and said, “York, sometimes I’m not sure if you realize this. But _we are in the army_. We do not need to recognize each other’s differences. We need to do our jobs. And _you_ need to stop reading comic books.” She punctuated this sentence by tossing said comic book in the trash bin up against the wall.

            “Hey, not cool.” York looked vaguely affronted. “That’s North’s.”

            “Then it should be in his room.”

            “I live there too.”

            “Then it should be in _your_ room.”

            “It was, I just took it from there.”

            “It should _stay_ in your room.”

            “But North’s taking a nap in there and I didn’t wanna turn the light on, so –”

            “Stop,” Carolina growled, surprising herself with her own irritation – but he was giving her a headache for god’s sake. The ability to know when to shut up should’ve been a requirement for Project Freelancer. “Go and do something useful.”

            York looked momentarily puzzled, then shrugged (again) and stood, ambling off in the direction of the coffeemaker.

            “I said useful, York.”

            He half-turned back to her and nodded, wide-eyed. “Yeah, the coffee pot seriously needs to be cleaned. You haven’t seen it?”

            “I don’t drink coffee.” Coffee could inhibit athletic ability if you weren’t careful.

            “’Course you don’t. Look, Carolina, all I was saying was…” He paused. “Just, you don’t have to be good at everything. We’re a team.”

            Carolina studied him for a moment, detecting a thin layer of real concern behind his  usual expression of general goodwill. _You’re only a team because I hold you together,_ she thought. _You’d bicker yourselves into a collapse without me. And if I’m not good at everything then how am I supposed to get any of you to do anything?_

“That’s a very nice sentiment, York,” she said aloud in her most condescending tone.

            He offered a haphazard salute in response and continued toward the coffeemaker, apparently undaunted by the sarcasm. “Thank you,” he replied without glancing back. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

She watched him disappear around the corner and bit back a nasty retort. No one _else_ made these demands of her; no one _else_ insisted so enthusiastically that she doubt herself. The others merely expected her to get the job done – for however competitive the program was, no one had ever _really_ viewed Carolina as an opponent. She had become their boss more or less from the start, and, though most of them would be loathe to admit it, their protector. If things went bad she was going to be the one to make them right again and they all knew it – even South, whose eyes so often flashed bright with rebellion. There wasn’t a whole lot of teamwork involved in that equation.

It was only in York’s head, she thought bitterly, that they were one big happy family, relying on one another’s Very Special Differences to save the day.

“Carolina?”

She blinked, looking up to find that he’d reappeared at the edge of the room, coffee pot in hand. “What?”

“I wasn’t kidding. Or being sentimental. We’re a team, and that includes you.” He looked straight at her with a stubbornness made plain by his posture.

 “Okay, York,” she said wearily.

“Plus,” he said, starting to grin again now, “Batman says –”

“ _Okay,_ York.”

“Right, right, useful stuff. Important stuff. I’m on it.” But he took the time to grin triumphantly at her before wandering off again. Carolina looked after him for a moment, then sighed and went to dig Batman out of the trash.


End file.
